


Mailap

by dorksen, siyuttov



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Hallucinations, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Temporary Amnesia, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorksen/pseuds/dorksen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/siyuttov/pseuds/siyuttov
Summary: Mailap\ma-'ee-lap\adj. Filipino1. elusive, intractable, untamedBucky Barnes has his ghosts.





	Mailap

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my wonderful beta, ironvixen
> 
> Note from Sen: I'm so thankful to have had Cas as an author! This was stressful but fun! Thanks for being so patient with me!

The whole time Bucky had been tortured in Azzano, he had been able to keep mostly sane. He remembered to his name, rank, serial, and nothing more. He knew who he was, the situation he was in, and when Steve arrived to rescue him, it only took a few moments to readjust. And really, that was all Steve’s fault. It made perfect sense that it would take Bucky a moment to adjust to the man he had known his whole life suddenly being taller and broader than him. Especially since he had known that smaller body so well. So it was all Steve’s fault. Still, after they had all been rescued, he’d been able to count the days. It had only been a few weeks of torture in Azzano.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been this time either, but he was fairly certain it had been longer than a few weeks. What Bucky wasn’t sure was if he had been tortured long enough that he should be hallucinating.

He had been seeing Steve for a while now. Sometimes he was there when Bucky woke up. Sometimes he showed up in the middle of testing or questioning. Sometimes he only showed up seconds before they electrocuted him again.

He’d overheard from some of the guards that the shocks were supposed to be wiping his memory. Something about finding the balance between where he’d started and brain dead. They had to be failing spectacularly if they were making him hallucinate Steve when they were trying to take away all memory of him.

It made no sense for him to be hallucinating Steve, but that was the only explanation.

Bucky refused to consider the voice in the back of his head that taunted him that there was another possibility.

Bucky didn’t believe in ghosts.

When he was little he had. Back when he believed in angels and golems. All kids believed in creatures before they understood how the word really worked.

But by the time he was working at the docks, it was hard to believe in a higher power, let alone things that went bump in the night. The horrors of war had done nothing to change that.

Bucky didn’t believe in ghosts, so what he was seeing couldn’t possibly be a ghost.

It was just logic, and had nothing to do with the ache he felt at the first thought that Steve might have a ghost.

Steve believed in ghosts though, or at least his Catholicism did. When they were keeping him from sleeping for days at a time and he couldn’t much control his train of thought, Bucky would find himself wondering if that meant Steve could have a ghost. 

Bucky disliked that torture more than the surgeries on his shoulder that they kept him awake for. 

He opened his eyes as he heard the door behind him open. He was strapped down to an old hospital bed. He could turn his head and look at who it was, but he didn’t have much interest in doing that. Instead he closed his eyes again. He felt cool metal press against his scalp, so it would be back to trying to erase his memory then.

Only then did he open his eyes, glancing around the room to see if he would get any last minute comfort. 

His hallucination was nowhere to be found.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He opened his eyes, looking around to the world beyond the metal strapped around his head. He tried to keep his breathing even and controlled as the metal hissed and retracted from view.

He knew that there was something wrong about it, but he couldn’t tell what. All he had was a nagging feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere else. Supposed to be something else.

It might have had something to do with his torso and right arm being strapped to the chair he was reclining in. 

That and the metal that was protruding out of his left shoulder.

It looked like the beginnings of an arm, if arms were made of metal plates. It stopped just above where the elbow would be, with wires jutting out the end. There was a red star painted near the shoulder, as if branding him was more important than finishing the arm itself.

He looked between it and his right arm, feeling increasingly nauseous. He could tell it wasn’t right, but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t remember losing his arm, so maybe he had lost it a long time ago.

He tried to move the arm, but it hung limp. He could feel himself losing control of his breathing as panic rose within him. This was wrong. This was all wrong, even if he couldn’t remember why.

Movement from the corner of his eye made him freeze, but he relaxed as soon as he recognized the figure. 

“Steve,” he sighed with relief. If Steve was here, he was going to be okay. Steve would never leave him.

Steve didn’t step closer, still watching from the periphery. It made him angry. Last time, Steve had moved to comfort him right away. He had helped him off the table.

Hadn’t he? He couldn’t actually remember that, he just felt it. He knew it. How did he know it?

“Steve?” he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

“You need to wake up,” Steve said softly, but his voice was wrong. Even at his sickest, Steve had always been so full of life. His voice had always been bigger and deeper than people expected.

So why did it sound so hollow?

“I am awake,” he said, about as petulantly as one in his position could. “Stop being a cracked egg and let me out.”

Steve just frowned and watched on.

“Damn it Steve!” He tried to shake off his bindings, but they held.

He gave one last tug as the door into the room opened, a clipboard in hand, pen already flying across it. “It appears we still have at least one more session,” he said in an almost bored voice, betrayed by just a hint of annoyance.

“One more session of what?” he asked, his eyes flicking between the man and Steve, hoping for answers.

The man didn’t answer, and the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up.

“You need to remember,” Steve said again.

“Stevie, please?”

The other man shook his head and laughed, but it was a cold laugh. “Captain America won’t be saving you anytime soon. He crashed his plane into the Artic months ago, carrying a load of the Red Skull’s most powerful bombs,” he said with a gleeful tone that seemed to grate with the words.

Captain America.

The name sparked something in him. He wondered why the Steve that was moving to stand next to him was so small.

He wondered absentmindedly if the serum didn’t apply to ghosts, or if there was another ghost out there that looked like Steve after he joined the army. It was stupid to wonder though, because Steve couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be. 

But even the serum couldn’t protect his Steve against everything.

He looked to Steve, his eyes watering. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he whispered.

 _Oh yeah_ , Bucky thought as the other man moved away, _my name is Bucky_.

The metal contraption lowered down onto his head again, the hissing sound even more grating now that he was fully away of it.

He closed his eyes and the pressure on his forehead was just Steve holding him close.

Steve stayed with him until the pain started.

 

* * *

 

The Asset understands his place in Hydra. 

He is the fist of Hydra, and protects their interested wherever he is needed. When he is not needed, he is put into storage.

The Asset understands the hierarchy above him. He has mission handlers and doctors and mechanics that report to their superiors who report to Zola. Occasionally, he would pass other scientists and field agents in the compounds he was kept in and on missions that required larger teams.

He knew who to follow orders from and whose orders overruled another’s. He knew not to listen to the orders of his targets. The Asset completed his missions without fail.

What the Asset did not understand was the role of the blond who sometimes watched him. He would show up during wipes, during mission briefs and debriefs, and even occasionally in the field.

The man was too small to be considered a powerful agent. He looked almost frail, and always dressed in the same outfit, even if it wasn’t fit for the mission. This confused the Asset, who was always kept in the proper attire. If the lowest rung on the ladder was care for, why was a superior not?

At least, the Asset assumed the blond was one of his superiors. That was what his intel suggested. He had no subordinates. He was a weapon. 

But the blond did not take orders from any of his technicians or handlers. Nor did the blond speak to them or assist in any of the Asset’s maintenance.

The Asset didn’t understand why he was present if he didn’t serve a purpose.

Everyone in Hydra served a purpose.

Today, the Asset’s purpose had been assassination. 

He was the backup. The mission already had a patsy who would be eliminated afterward. In the event that his shots failed, the Asset would complete the mission.

The Asset was wearing plain clothes to blend in with the bustling crowd. His long sleeve shirt and gloves were a bit out of place, but it was still cool enough as to not draw attention to him.

His hair was pulled back so that it did not interfere with his sight. This meant he had to watch flags in the wind, leaves on trees to measure the wind. He had to pay close attention to the breeze, so that he could take the shot at a moment’s notice.

His gun was hidden among the folds of his umbrella. They were lucky it had rained that morning, or he would be limited to a handgun. He could still do it, but it would be more difficult at that distance.

He loitered behind the fence, waiting to see if he would be needed.

As the first motorcycles pulled by, the Asset readied his gun.

He waited as a Ford Mercury came into view. The next car would hold the mission target.

The Asset lifted the rifle as the second car in the motorcade rolled into sight.

The target sat in the back row of an open top car. The Asset had a clear shot.

One breath. Two breaths.

The first shot was fired. He waited, but there was barely a reaction. There was no confirmed kill.

The Asset took the shot. Confirmed hit.

He was about to turn and leave. He had a rendezvous point to get to before the panic calmed and it would be harder to leave.

But the blond was standing next to him, shaking his head.

The Asset was confused as to why the man seemed upset. It was a solid hit. The target eliminated and the mission nearly complete.

“You’re havin’ a real short circuit between the earphones,” the blond muttered. 

The Asset cocked its head; he was unfamiliar with that designation. He hesitated before packing up his weapon and disappearing into the crowd.

Later, he would be punished for not being quick enough. Pictures had been taken. Eyewitness accounts recalled him on the grassy knoll.

“I was delayed by the blond agent,” he said when they asked what had happened. The Asset suspected they were worried about a malfunction. The fist of Hydra needed to remain strong and punch when ordered or it would be useless.

The handlers looked at each other, and the Asset scanned the room to point out the agent in question.

He was nowhere to be found.

The Asset did not understand why that made him feel empty.

After a quiet discussion, the handlers proceeded with the rest of the debrief.

The Asset looked forward to the wipe and storage so he wouldn’t have to think about the blond anymore. It hurt his brain in a way he wasn’t used to. The wipe at least was a familiar discomfort.

 

* * *

 

The Asset changed hands a few times over the next decades.

He was lent to various government agencies and Hydra outposts to assist in the chaos that Hydra required.

He was sent to help train little girls as the next generation of assassins. He had no concern that his usefulness would run out. These were little widows. They could fit into places that he never could, but he was still the fist of Hydra.

When the widows were no longer useful, they were eliminated. The Asset was always useful, only sometimes unneeded. Even then, he was not eliminated, only put into storage.

When he returned to Hydra, there was new management again. He had a short mission and was then sent to oversee the training of new soldiers. When the soldiers were put into storage, so was he.

The Asset woke to new handlers. The blond agent never returned, and the Asset forgot he had ever existed.

 

* * *

 

The Asset knew the man on the bridge.

He was familiar in a way the Asset didn’t quite understand.

He hadn't taken the shot. He'd hesitated because of the target. Because of the blond man.

He didn't know why that felt significant, which only made it all worse. It was one thing to receive faulty intelligence, but it was another to feel like his mind was betraying him.

The asset had no reason to hesitate. The man was a target, not a handler. Even if he were order to kill a handler, he wouldn't hesitate. So why did he?

He was the fist of Hydra. He could remember being told so.

But he could remember being called Bucky too. By the man on the bridge himself, but somewhere cold. Had he been assigned to that target before? Perhaps he had been an old handler. Some handlers had other nicknames for him too.

The Asset couldn’t tell why that felt right but still not enough. Still off.

He was being asked for a mission report. He knew he should respond, should give his report as ordered. But he wasn’t certain what to report. He needed more information.

He was still thinking it over when he felt off balance and sting on his cheek. It took a moment to figure out that he had been disciplined.

He turned back to the handler. He was an important one, and the Asset wasn’t sure why he was dealing with the Asset personally. He had to respond, though. Even if he didn’t have all the information.

“The man on the bridge. Who was he?” The idea that the target was ex-Hydra and therefore an enemy did not sit well with him. The discomfort from a mission like this was itself unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

He looked to his handler for answers.

His handler looked almost disappointed in the answer. The Asset still wasn’t giving a mission report, but apparently he didn’t require further discipline.

 “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

The Asset didn’t understand what the handler was hiding. It was clear in his tone and body language. What did his handler have to hide from him?

“I knew him,” he said quietly.

It still wasn’t the correct answer. The Asset could tell he was failing his handler. Failing his purpose. Even as his superior began to speak to him again and reassure him of his purpose, the Asset felt empty.

His mission was the most important thing. He had to do his part for Hydra, and for the people. That was his purpose.

He _knew_ that was his purpose. So why didn’t he believe it anymore.

The Asset was confused. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. He was malfunctioning. He couldn’t do his job if he was malfunctioning.

“But I knew him.” 

He almost felt nauseous when his handler said he needed a wipe.

The Asset couldn't remember ever feeling this way before a wipe. Something about it felt wrong, like he shouldn't let it happen. But the Asset had orders. He was malfunctioning and a wipe would fix him.

He also wanted all the confusion to end. He leaned forward and bit the offered mouth guard.

 

* * *

 

He had a headache. It was one he knew he couldn't cure because his metabolism didn't allow drugs to work.

He also knew it had nothing to do with his injuries from his last mission. Dislocated shoulder. Minor bruising around the throat and extremities. Bruised ribs. Facial contusions. No broken bones. Those wounds had healed days ago.

No, he had the sinking suspicion it had to do with his mission in a completely different way. It was the mission himself, the target.

The things he had said didn't sound like lies to throw him off. Hey knew what that shade of desperate lies sounded like. They didn't sound like his mission. Even if they had, giving up wouldn't make any sense.

His mission didn’t want to fight him. But in the end, he hadn’t been able to complete it anyway.

He had remembered something, at the end of the fight. He remembered the target, but different somehow. He didn't understand why his own brain was playing tricks on him. It hadn’t been clear or concrete. He couldn’t say what the memory was, exactly, but it filled him with horror.

When the mission had fallen, he couldn’t help but go after him. He couldn’t let him drown.

The man wasn’t his mission anymore.

Still, he had a headache, and nothing in the Hydra safe house was going to help him with it. He needed to try something other than just sitting around. He needed to figure out who the target was and why he had been saying what he had. He needed to go out.

He assessed himself in the wall length mirror. The jeans and black t-shirt would work well enough as a base, but he needed to cover his arm. Raiding the closet again, he found a light green flannel and a plain black baseball cap. He found some gloves to cover his hands and a jacket so the gloves wouldn’t look so out of place. Thinking of his time with Hydra left him with mixed feelings, but he was grateful for the knowledge about how to blend into a crowd.

He grabbed a wallet and filled it with the cash he had found in the house before pocketing it. Finally, he armed himself with a gun and a couple knives and headed out. He popped the collar of the jacket as he walked down the street. It was a cool enough day for early April, and it would give him extra coverage from security cameras and curious pedestrians.

Now he just needed to figure out where to go.

He could go to a library, but he didn’t even know where to start. Librarians could be helpful, but minimal human interaction was essential. The news said that Hydra had lost, which meant he could be taken in. He probably shouldn’t stay in the safe house much longer either, just in case.

As he was walking west, he could see police lights at the end of the street. There were barricades along the Potomac to keep people away as they cleaned up the wreckage. It was the police he was concerned about though, so he turned north.

He had been walking for ten minutes, still unsure of what destination he should be aiming for. He was passing restaurants, many just opening for the lunch rush. He was passing hotels and apartment buildings, schools, and churches. None of them would be much help though.

He was considering turning back east when he saw an add on the side of a bus stop. It had a dark blue background, with the target featured, showing his face and the white star on his uniform. The bottom read in large text “Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage.” He stepped closer to read the text under it. It was a new exhibit at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, which was only a few blocks away at this point. D Street, C Street, and then Independence Avenue if he was remembering the city correctly. He needed to learn more about the target, especially since the target claimed to know him. Hopefully, the museum would help.

He had enough cash for a car, so he could afford admission, but he doubted his weapons would be allowed. Even if he ditched them somewhere, his arm would set off the metal detector. He couldn’t allow himself to be discovered, so he would have to find another way in.

It took two hours of casing the place to find the weaknesses. He went to a nearby store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then he returned to the museum and waited by a side entrance. Lighting one of the cigarettes, he waited for the guard he had seen earlier come to take another break. Sure enough, five minutes later he had company.

“You can’t be out here,” the guard said, reaching for his walkie-talkie. 

“Shit, sorry,” he said quickly, dropping the butt and stepping on in. He looked at the guard, apologies on his face. “I just needed a break from my sister and her kids, ya know?”

The guard chuckled, and he knew he was in.

“No problem, just don’t come out here again, alright?” he said, using his keys to unlock the door.

“Thank you,” he said as he slipped inside.

He hadn’t been the fist of Hydra for nothing. 

After that, is was easy to maneuver through the crowds to the exhibit he needed.

When he finally got up the elevator to his destination, he thought he was seeing a ghost.

The target’s picture was plastered everywhere, which he had expected. Steven Rogers, the calm voice overhead announced. But he hadn’t expected to see another face. It was one he hadn’t known about until he recognized it. A small, blond man with a strong jaw and a nose just a bit too big for his face.

He had been there, at Hydra. He was the agent in the background, only he wasn’t an agent. If this exhibit was to be believe, it was a pre-serum Steve Rogers. A man who fought Hydra tooth and nail.

Besides, he realized, he had seen that Rogers on a mission in ’63. He had been in the ice almost two decades at that point.

It didn’t make any sense and his headache was only getting worse, so he kept moving.

He slowed as he approached a glass sign with his face on it. Because it had his face on it. And it had the same names Rogers had called him. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes.

He skimmed the caption next to his face, feeling shock as he read about a life that had been his. That had been taken from him. 

Somehow, he knew it was true. Sure, technically they could just be look-alikes, but something in him told him it was true. It felt real. It felt like clarity.

He swallowed as he finished reading, anger and grief roiling in his stomach as he realized everything that Hydra must have taken from him.

He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the exhibits, grateful for the scruff that helped disguise his face from the clean-shaven one painted and projected throughout the hall.

Having decided that he would leave the safe house in the morning, he spent the evening preparing to leave. He packed a laptop that he had swept for bugs, his weapons, the hidden stash of bills, and as many set of clothes that he could fit.

It wasn’t until he had crawled into bed that he realized his headache was gone.

 

* * *

 

Bucky started seeing Steve everywhere after the trip to the museum. He showed up in the rearview mirror and Bucky puts D.C. behind him and in the Albany apartment he started renting on six-moth lease. It’s not furnished, but he didn’t need much. He bought a cheap mattress and a small desk set from a second hand store. Enough to sleep, eat, and keep up with the mess

Despite the fact that he still didn’t really remember Steve, the hallucination kept showing up. It bothered him a little, but he figured if that’s the worst side affect of what Hydra did to him, it really wasn’t so bad.

It was only the worst side effect until the nightmares started.

They started about a week after he moved in. He bought bed frame instead of just sleeping on the floor in hopes that they would stop, but they kept coming. It took Bucky too long to realize they were memories of what happened under Hydra.

He’d been able to piece together most of his missions between the nightmares and the internet. Sometimes, he read them and felt numb. Sometimes, he barely made it to the toilet. When he looked up what happened in Dallas in ’63 he was certain he would have passed out if it weren’t for the serum they’d given him in Azzano.

He prayed for dreamless nights after that, but he wasn’t surprised when the dreams continued. Bucky even considered going to shul, since there’s certainly no shortage of them in the city. He’s not sure what good that will do though. It’s been seventy years, but he doubts the Rabbi’s have written much on brainwashing and cybernetic enhancements.

The job search took his mind off things for a while. He was running out of the cash he stole from the Hydra safe house and needed a source of income so he wouldn’t have to resort to stealing. Unfortunately, he was limited by his need to lay low and his lack of papers. The search led to a job as a mechanic. Bucky remembered enough from some of the jobs he took in the thirties and the internet is there for the rest. He’s grateful to have found a job where it doesn’t look weird for him to have gloves on all day, especially as it warms into the beginnings of the summer.

His first day on job, he told them to call him James.

It was relaxing for him to have something to do with his hands. It lets Bucky take a step back from Hydra and everything he’s lost and be a productive member of society again.

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the time passing or the newfound peace of the job, but the nightmares started shifting in the summer. They were still nightmares at first, but from the war. Steve Rogers was there, the big one, and Bucky was always watching his back. Finally, as the fall approached, the dreams shifted once again.

It was the same Steve that lies under cars with him and watched him cook. But instead of the hallucination's silence, the Steve in his dreams never shut his mouth. It got them both into trouble back in the day, but Bucky never wakes up mad.

 

* * *

 

Bucky still had bad days, but he’s mostly doing better.                                                                                             

He still worked at the auto-shop. He and some of the other guys go out for drinks after work on Thursday’s. There’s a trivia night that they liked to go to. Most weeks he wasn’t much help but every once in awhile there would be a question about something far enough back that he could help out. Either way, they rib him about it.

It felt familiar in a way that made Bucky happy and lonely. It reminded him of the Howlies. And it reminded him of Steve.

He set a Google alert to news about Steve. It bugged him far too often because the idiot was reckless and didn’t know how to watch his own ass. A part of him wanted to be there to have his six, but Bucky knew he still wasn’t ready.

He was still scared. He had never been as brave as Steve.

Instead of reaching out and helping Steve, Bucky settled for helping others. There was a food pantry he volunteered at on weekends, helping inventory donations and package boxes for those who needed it to pick up. It was nice to use his hands to help rather than hurt, the same way it helped when he worked on cars.

He wore a glove on his left hand, which garnered a few strange looks. All that took was a shrug, tight smile, and a quiet “scars,” for anyone to drop it, looking sufficiently embarrassed.

The air began to cool as fall set in upstate New York. It made it easier for Bucky to spend more time in public and around others. Steve’s hallucination followed, sometimes hovering in the crowd, sometimes sitting in one of the empty seats around the table when he chose to eat out. As Bucky eased into training again, Steve followed him into the gym and the gun range. There was no escaping him.

Bucky could tell the hallucination is angry. He was always scowling in a way Bucky could now remember from before the war. It was the look Steve got just before he decided to step in, which usually meant it was the look Steve got just before Bucky had to step in too. Like usual, Bucky had a pretty good idea of why Steve was so upset too.

The problem was, he wasn’t ready to face Steve. He still needed more time.

His memories were mostly clear, though his sleep was still soured by nightmares some nights. He could remember the way he and Steve fit into each other’s lives so perfectly. He would wake up from dreams of happy memories only to be disappointed by reality. Bucky founds his days lonely when he knew the way they had laughed and argued and fought alongside one another.

Bucky could remember, so he also knew he wouldn’t fit there any more.

He didn’t want to become the silent figure on the outskirts of Steve’s life. He much preferred a hallucination being all he got than becoming a ghost in Steve’s life.

As much as he wanted to see Steve, some ghosts were better left dead.

 

* * *

 

Bucky shouldn’t have tried anything. 

He had been laying low for a reason. He had been avoiding press and police and _Steve_ for a reason.

But when he heard about a hostage situation at a local bank, he couldn’t just do nothing.

He’d been just about to leave for work when it came through his police scanner. He called in sick instead. Bucky had hoped he would never need his tactical gear again, but he had never been able to toss it.

He tried not to think about the last time he wore it, but the memories came to the surface anyway. Especially once the mask went on.

Bucky shook his head, armed himself, and head out.

The bank was easy enough to slip into. The police line was still being set up around the front, and nobody was even thinking about the roof. Bucky just had to climb the fire escape down the block and run along the rooftops. The door to the stairs was locked, but his left hand made easy work of it.

Bucky considered his options as he snuck to the ground floor. 

The memory of the asset told him to take them out. Shooting to kill would minimize collateral from the hostages. It also gave Bucky bigger targets to hit.

His problem with that plan was that the scanner had said it was a team of three. If they were hitting the bank in the middle of the day with the cops on sight so quickly, there was no way they were pros.

Plus, he really didn’t want to have to kill anyone again. Not if he didn’t have to. He wasn't Hydra anymore.

He could also negotiate, but that seemed too risky. He didn’t know what they wanted and they would probably be pretty freaked out by him appearing from seemingly nowhere, even if he did take off the mask.

Bucky was still considering his next step when he heard a gunshot.

He rushed the stairs down to the main level crouching behind the railing from behind the tellers’ desks.

Just as the scanner had said, there were three masked suspects, but only two guns. Thankfully, one of those weapons was pointed at the ceiling, appearing to have only taken a warning shot. The suspect without a weapon was closest to him, grabbing cash from the open tills. The hostages, he counted five customers and nine employees, were spread out across the floor. A few were crying, and others were praying. 

The longer Bucky let the robbery continue, the riskier it would become. He could tell they were unnerved by the sirens, perhaps they hadn’t expected the cops to be so quick. Bucky needed to put an end to the situation before it could escalate.

With the armed assailants distracted by the hostages, Bucky slunk forward and incapacitated the third. He laid the man’s unconscious body on the floor as quietly as possible.

He took one last peak at the situation and launched himself over the counter. He was able to kick the first in the chest, sending him flying into the wall next to him. He slumped against the floor immediately, but Bucky only had a moment to hope he didn’t over-do it. The second suspect had his gun trained on Bucky, but he deflected the first and second bullet with his arm as he stepped closer. The third hit the edge of his vest. The suspect didn’t get a fourth in as Bucky knocked the gun out of his hand with one punched and knocked him out with the next.

 He took a deep breath and turned to see fourteen pairs of eyes staring up at him with fear and awe.

“Get the hell out of here before they wake up,” he ordered.

They reacted at different speeds, some lingering in shock and others jumping up and sprinting out immediately. Bucky didn’t stay to ensure they left; he had to get out before the cops came in.

Leaving the scene was just as easy as arriving, and Bucky was almost tempted to stick around and watch, but he didn’t want to risk it. Besides, he had to get out of town.

They would have footage from the bank. Footage that would no doubt identify him as the Winter Soldier, a nickname given to him by foreign intelligence that the media had fallen in love with. Then it would only be a matter of time before what was left of SHIELD and Hydra put it all together and came after him.

Steve might come after him too.

Bucky ran home and began packing. He didn’t need to take much, but he had to make sure he didn’t leave behind too much either.

His suitcase was halfway full when he was startled by a voice behind him.

“That suitcase better be headed for home or so help me!”

Bucky didn’t realize that he’d been hoping for the voice to be real until he turned around and was disappointed to see his hallucination.

He had been wishing it were Steve, that Steve was here to take him home.

Bucky sunk to his knees, tears shining in his eyes. He looked up as Steve reached out, cradling his face.

“You can’t keep running from your past, Buck. Not when it’s where you want to end up,” Steve explained.

Bucky blinked back tears and nodded. By the time he looked back at Steve, his hallucination was floating in front of him and flickering like static.

“You’re ready to go home, Bucky. No more ghosts,” Steve murmured before disappearing. 

Bucky stayed on the ground for another moment. He still wasn’t the same man he had been before the war, or even before his final mission. He would never be fully free from the asset and his memories.

But maybe he could find home again anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stark Tower was a lot different than anywhere else he had lived before.

It was cleaner and warmer than the tenement housing he’d grown up in. It was brighter than the underground labs Hydra had kept him in. It was happier than the apartment he and Steve had shared, because Steve was healthy and they didn’t have to hide anymore.

Sometimes he still missed the skinny little Steve that he had to run into back alleys after, but the Steve he had now loved who he was now too.

Steve understood that Bucky had needed time, even though he wished it had been different.

Bucky still needed time now. He wasn’t ready to join the Avengers, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. But Steve loved him anyway.

Ghosts and all.

 

 


End file.
